BAD SAINT (All the Pretty Things #1)

Three-2

“You’re coming up on deck.”

“I am?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes,” he replies firmly, peering down at my grazed wrist. “You need some sunshine. And you need to eat.” The mere mention of food has my stomach growling.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to mention I look anemic because he’s locked me down here for four days, but I decide against it. The thought of feeling the sunshine on my Vitamin-D depleted skin is too good an opportunity to pass up.

In regards to food, I peer over at the poorly stocked shelves and frown. “Do you have anything that isn’t canned?”

He sweeps his hand outward, gesturing I’m to look for myself.

This new sense of freedom is unsettling. Something which I took for granted has been snatched out from under me, and now that I’ve been given it back, I don’t know what to do with it—like a bird being released from her cage but is too scared to spread her wings.

Not sure when I will be given this freedom again, I brush past him, his trademark scent smashing into me. It’s not a bad sensation; it’s just…familiar, which is absurd. I stop in front of the shelves, placing my hands on my hips and blowing the hair from my cheeks.

Tuna fish, a few cans of soup, a small bag of flour, dry milk, and what appears to be dried jerky—nothing looks remotely appetizing. However, when I see some potatoes, eggs, and a bag of rice in a drawer below the sink, things start looking up slightly.

Tapping my chin, I begin to channel my inner MasterChef.

“See anything acceptable?” Saint asks, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his tone carried a touch of playfulness in it.

“It doesn’t look completely hopeless,” I reply, my back still turned. “Growing up in my household, you were forced to make do with whatever was lying around.”

I realize this is the first piece of information I’ve shared about myself with Saint. How will he respond? Will he see me as a person and not merely a means to an end?

“Didn’t your parents stick around?”

Surprised that he actually cares, I don’t make a big deal about it and shrug. “My dad died when I was twelve. After that, my mom just sort of forgot I existed.” When he’s quiet, I turn over my shoulder, and add, “What? Not the story you were expecting? Expecting the life of a spoiled brat who turned to modeling after sleeping with every hotshot in LA?”

His predominant Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ve caught him off guard. “I’ve come to learn not to expect anything when you’re involved.”

Well, damn. That’s given me food for thought.

Clearing my throat, I go back to making sense of our menu, rather than analyzing what he means by that comment. “I can probably make some sort of a frittata or omelet.” Forgetting he’s here, I walk over to the small fridge and find some frozen vegetables in the tiny freezer. I can work with that.

Grabbing what I need, I dump everything onto the table, pointing at each item to catalog its purpose in my head. The potatoes can’t go in whole. I need a knife. I switch my gaze from the small pile to Saint, who stands on the opposite side of the table watching me.

“I need utensils like a bowl, spoon. A knife,” I add nonchalantly, trying my best to mask my nerves.

He sighs low as if deep in thought.

“Or you can always help?” I suggest as I need to play this off. I don’t plan on using the knife, but I plan on gaining his trust with it.

A cloud of uncertainty lingers, but eventually, he reaches into his back pocket and produces his switchblade. My nose instantly screws up in revulsion. “I am not using that to prepare my meal.”

That blade is the same one he severed my attacker’s throat with. The sunshine catches the bright silver of the metal, and I shiver as memories crash into me. But I pull it together and extend my hand.

I wish I could see his face because right now, I’m just guessing his thoughts. Without any facial expressions, he is merely my captor, but that is exactly what he is, and I need to remember that. Just because he’s showing a shred of decency doesn’t excuse the despicable things he’s done.

This is a test. I’m testing him, and he’s testing me.

My gaze never wavers from his as I appear bored, waiting for him to give me the knife. But there is no doubt he’s contemplating his next move. This is the first step to gaining his trust because all I need is a little leeway to get to the radio or to somehow steal his phone.

The air is thick with anticipation, but eventually, he caves.

When he places the switchblade into my palm, every part of me sings in victory, but I remain passive.

“Thank you…мастер.”

A hiss escapes him as he takes a small step back, which is exactly the response I wanted. But I play it off and instead turn, hunting for a saucepan. When I find a small one, I place it on the stovetop and pour half a bottle of water into it.

I may have agreed to use the knife, but I won’t be using it without boiling it first. As I wait for the water to boil, I hunt for a chopping board and some bowls. Once I decide on eggs and hash browns, my mouth waters at the thought of freshly baked biscuits.

As the water begins to boil, I dump the blade into the pot, hoping it’ll be sanitized to the point of being able to use it without remembering it took someone’s life. But I know it never will.

Needing a distraction, I reach for the flour and dry milk and decide to attempt to make biscuits. It’s my comfort food, and right now, I need all the comfort I can get. Once the knife has bubbled and boiled for a few minutes, I turn off the stove and reach into the water with tongs. Images of using this blade for my escape crash into me as I begin to wonder if Saint is now unarmed.

Peering at his statue—arms folded, eyes sharp, legs spread—I know there is no way I’d make it three steps. Besides, I have to pick my battles wisely, and doing this is for the greater good.

Curling my fingers around the cold handle, I detach myself from what it’s capable of, of what I’ve seen it do, and focus on the good it can do, like make me breakfast. I begin to peel the potatoes, willing my shaky fingers to steady. It’s a little hard to do, however, when Saint pulls up a chair, straddles it, and watches me intently.

My heart is racing, and I’m certain he can see my fear, but I continue working, fixated on making food because I’m suddenly famished. “Can I make some coffee?”

Saint nods.

For the next twenty minutes, I work like a madwoman, but it’s nice to lose myself in normality seeing as I’ve been surrounded by anything but. Once I’m done, I stand back, smiling at my creation. With limited ingredients and supplies, I was able to whip up hash browns, eggs, and biscuits, which are a little flat, but regardless, they smell amazing. The coffee, however, is the crème de la crème because after living without it for four days, my body craves a caffeine hit.

Saint has watched me the entire time, which, of course, is no surprise. I have to earn his trust before he leaves me unsupervised, which is why I give his knife a wash and slide it across the table. “Thank you.”

He reaches for it and places it into his back pocket. “You’re welcome, ангел.”

“What does that mean?” It’s out before I can stop myself.

Saint stiffens as if he’s just been called out, which just intrigues me further. He comes to a slow stand, and I gulp when peering upward, examining his tall stature. “Let’s eat.” And that puts an end to a conversation Saint clearly has no interest in having.

Yet his evasiveness just intrigues me all the more.

I’ve made enough food to feed a small nation, so I reach for four plates and serve up breakfast. Once the coffee is poured, I wait for further instruction. Saint turns over his shoulder and shouts in Russian. Although the language is so foreign to me, I find it almost entrancing when spoken in Saint’s hoarse tone.

When the two Russians pound down the stairs, all entrancement is long gone.

They look at the food on the table and then up at me. This is strange, to say the least, but clearly, their appetite is more important than dealing with this weirdness as they almost fight one another to snatch a plate for themselves.

Saint steps aside, allowing the scavengers to feed first.

I sip my coffee, relishing in the bitterness. I don’t fancy eating down here as I’m tired of the dark. I want to feel the sunshine against my skin. I also need to scope out the radio, and I can’t do that with Saint breathing down my throat.

“Let’s go outside.”

It’s a touch scary he can read me so well, but I suppose he’s at an advantage. He can see my face after all.

Mark stops shoveling the eggs into his mouth as I reach for my plate. His ravenous eyes instantly drop to the front of my dress as the scooped neckline reveals a little too much cleavage when bending low. I feel disgusting, like my mom’s words are true when I play on his attraction and reach forward for my fork.

It’s innocent enough, but I know it has the desired effect when Mark’s tongue sweeps along his bottom lip. His smell alone has me wanting to gag, but I smile shyly, hoping to feign innocence and submission.

The other Russian just continues to inhale his food, not at all affected by me.

I wait for Saint to lead the way with my eyes cast downward. When I hear his heavy boots march up the stairs, I follow, ensuring to brush Mark gently with my shoulder on the way out. I know I’m playing with fire, but Saint will eventually have to sleep. I can only hope when that happens, Mark is awake. I will then make up some excuse as to why I need to go upstairs.

It’s weak, but it’s all I have.

The sun feels wonderful against my skin, and I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and tipping my chin upward to savor the feeling as I don’t know when I will experience it again. My growling stomach interrupts my basking, so I open my eyes. Saint is sitting on the white chest near the helm. I try my best to remain unaffected, but it’s difficult to when that radio is within reach.

Wanting to get as close as possible to the radio, I sit across from Saint on a small wooden bench seat. Sitting cross-legged, I place my plate on my lap and the coffee beside me. I reach for the biscuit and separate it into two pieces. Using my fork, I pile on the fluffy scrambled eggs onto one side before sealing it shut.

A perfect meal.

The moment I take a bite, a small moan leaves me as my taste buds sing in delight. It’s the first real thing I’ve eaten in days. Uncaring I look like a caveman, I shove the entire biscuit into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks full.

Once I’m done gulping that down, I dig into the hash browns, scraping the plate clean. It takes me all of five minutes to finish my meal. Leaning back against the railing, I place my hands on my full stomach and sigh.

That was so unladylike, but lucky for me, I don’t care. Saint only sees me as a means to an end anyway, so why bother with manners. However, I risk a glance his way, and if I didn’t know any better, I could swear I see his lips twitch. But that’s impossible.

As I sip my coffee, my mind wanders to Drew. It’s been four days since I was kidnapped. He must be beside himself.

We didn’t even get a chance to consummate our marriage. What a cruel f*****g joke. The need to escape has never been more crucial.

“When will we arrive at wherever we’re going?” I ask cautiously, unsure how he’ll respond.

His fork pauses en route to his mouth.

I know I’m overstepping a boundary, but he did say if I behaved, he’d reward me. And the fact I didn’t stab him in the jugular is me behaving. I don’t expect much, so when he replies, I almost fall from my seat.

“A week. Give or take. Then we go by car.”

“Go where?” I ask in a small voice.

He finishes his eggs, appearing to need the time to prepare his response. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

His ominous reply has tears welling in my eyes. “Will you let me go?”

“No, I can’t,” he replies, averting his eyes. It’s the first sign he’s expressed that reveals he’s human.

“Where I’m going”— I pause, steadying my quaking voice —“will it hurt?”

“Yes,” he simply yet remorsefully responds.

“Will I ever be able to go home?” I work my bottom lip, fearful, but better I know.

Silence.

The only sound is the gentle sway of the ocean. But in that silence is a riotous ruckus within me.

“…No.”

A single tear scores my cheek as Saint locks eyes with me. I’m trying to be strong, but I’ve just been told that life as I know it has changed forever.

“Will you be there?” I ask, picking at my dusty pink nail polish. “Wherever there is.”

I don’t know why it matters, but a familiar face or, rather, a familiar swirl of chartreuse might ease the pain. But this is all a false sense of security because nothing ever will.

“No…Willow, I won’t be.”

I gasp. It’s the first time he’s used my name, and it sounds almost forbidden slipping past his lips. In some ways, I know that it is.

I sniff back my tears, attempting to be strong, but the quiver to my lower lip gives me away. “So you’re just going to deliver me and then what? Get paid?”

He stands abruptly, passing a hand over his head. I presume this is an involuntary habit of his because if not for the ski mask, he’d be able to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t get paid how you think I do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means”—he interlaces his hands behind his nape—“that I don’t get paid with money.”

I c**k my head to the side, utterly confused.

No matter which way I look at this, there is no doubt that once I arrive at my destination, the chance to escape will no longer be an option. Which means I need to escape now.

“Is Boss”—a sob gets trapped in my throat, but I pull it together—“a nice man?” I’m not stupid. From the small snippets he’s fed me and the conversations I’ve heard in passing, I will soon have to obey Boss. I don’t know who he is, or why he wants me, but he’s the reason this happened, and he’s the reason I will fight with my life to flee.

Sighing, Saint takes his time once again, grappling with how much he should disclose. But when he looks into my dogged eyes, he knows I won’t settle for anything but the truth. “No, he is not.”

I nod, biting my bottom lip as tears trickle down my cheeks. “Thank you for being ho-honest.”

Saint nods once, but he’s clearly not happy with what’s headed my way. So the question is, why is he doing it? If not for money, then what else? What else can one be paid with that they would risk their lives for?

The Russians emerge, and I quickly wipe away my tears, refusing to show weakness. “I’d like to go back downstairs, please.”

My request throws Saint for a loop, but he doesn’t ask me why. He leads the way, and I follow like the good captive that I am because even though Saint has shown me a lick of kindness, I won’t mistake him for anything other than what he is—and that’s a monster.

He’s leading a lamb to the slaughter, but the one thing he doesn’t realize…is that I’m not a lamb. And I never will be.